


Yell Help

by mister_otter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Romance, Sexual Humor, dramionelove Spring-Summer 2013 Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister_otter/pseuds/mister_otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A midsummer night’s tale of wine, merriment, and a party game gone curiously awry…Based on the prompt A Midsummer Night’s Dream Costume Ball</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yell Help

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by the ultra-talented writer and artist, captainraychill! Many thanks, my dear--these couldn't be more awesomely perfect!  
> And many, many thanks to eilonwy for her best-of-the-best beta skills!

_“I wish tonight was Wednesday night; I wish it wasn’t the thirteenth of July…” Sir Elton John_

Draco Malfoy lay on his back beneath the summer night sky. He was fairly certain he was dead. 

If that were in fact the case, his mother would never, ever forgive him—even though she was the one mostly responsible for his untimely demise. After all, Narcissa had been the one to plan this stupid, after-the-fact birthday bash, complete with ridiculous costumes and a god-awful game that involved stumbling around in the woods, in the dark.

He thought he’d been so clever this time, avoiding her lavish yearly celebration of his birthday by backpacking through Europe for six weeks. But when he’d returned home, he had no sooner set his bags down than Narcissa had pounced.

“We’re having a Midsummer Night’s Dream Masque this evening, to celebrate your birthday,” she had told him. 

“Mother, today is the thirteenth of July,” Draco had protested. “My birthday was weeks ago.”

“Better late than not at all, then. And your costume for this year’s frolic will be Captain of the Faeries.” 

[](http://s228.photobucket.com/user/carot24/media/Otter%20-%20Draco%20Final.jpg.html)

With a wave of her wand, Narcissa had magicked Draco into an outfit that made him look as though he should be strolling the streets of medieval London, selling tarts from a tray and juggling balls. Draco had scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like Captain of the Faeries all right, though not in the way his mother had intended. 

But since Lucius had died unexpectedly three years ago, Draco had been Narcissa’s sole focus. He didn’t have the heart to hurt her now. Longing for him to marry and produce a family of his own, she was forever match-making. The yearly birthday party was a way to bring together as many eligible young witches as possible. And everyone adored Narcissa’s parties. Last year she’d thrown a Pirate’s Booty Bash, complete with a flying Spanish galleon and a treasure hunt with a chest of real golden Galleons as prize. It was easy for guests to forget that the Malfoys had once backed Voldemort when gold coins were at stake… 

Draco had spent the first part of this year’s party near the punch bowl, scowling, sulking, and growing more inebriated by the minute, while watching for the one person he truly hoped to see this evening—Hermione Granger.

He’d ogled Ginny Weasley’s pixie costume, mossy grey-green with possibly the shortest skirt he’d ever seen, and then tried to blot from his mind the picture created by Luna Lovegood, who’d floated up to him in indigo dusted with silver, announced she was Lady Stardust, and asked if he knew a good place in the Malfoy woods where she could shag Neville. Preferably by a babbling brook.

When the clock tolled midnight, Narcissa had appeared at the top of the stairs in a costume of trailing leaves, a golden tiara perched on her head, and announced that it was time for a game of Pixies versus Faeries in the woods behind the Manor. She’d divided the company into two teams and outlined a set of simple rules: catch as many of the opposing team’s players as possible and find the Woodland Queen’s cache of faerie silver. 

Draco had listened with half an ear. The last clear thing he remembered was organizing his team into small groups and then stumbling off into the woods to hide until it was all over, praying he wouldn’t accidentally encounter Luna in the middle of carrying out her plan for Neville. This was followed by an odd, disjointed memory of running. Followed by falling. And pain. 

Now, lying flat on his back on the hard-packed earth, Draco slowly peeled one eyelid open. Above him, dark leaves trembled in the summer night wind and a full moon hovered overhead, beaming down in smug amusement. Cautiously, he opened the other eye. Perhaps he wasn’t dead after all.

His vision was a bit blurry, there was a crushing pressure on his chest, and he felt two stabbing pains, one just under his jaw and another in the center of his back. But the dead did not feel pain, so maybe there was a chance… As he shifted his gaze downward, away from the glowing moon, his heart plummeted. No, not dead—but about to be. The heavy pressure he was feeling came from a winged figure seated on top of him. He had no doubt whatsoever that it was the Angel of Death, waiting for him to expire so it could carry him off to the Netherworld. 

The Death Angel wore an elegant silver mask, in the swooping shape of a summer moth that completely covered her face. The only feature visible was a pair of very nicely shaped lips, slightly parted and stained a deep crimson— as if she’d been feasting on woodland berries, or the blood of someone who was not quite dead but that she very much wanted to go ahead and claim. 

Could Death Angels do such things? Draco wasn’t sure, but this one looked rather fierce, with her tumbled Botticelli curls and sudden, fearsome scowl. 

[](http://s228.photobucket.com/user/carot24/media/Otter%20-%20Hermione%20Final.jpg.html)

Realizing that escape was unlikely, Draco decided to do the only plausible thing he could think of: beg. “Do… do you think you could make an exception this time?” he pleaded. “I’m only twenty-two. Could I possibly, just maybe, have one more chance?”

“Not on your life, Malfoy,” the Angel replied in a familiar voice. “And age has nothing to do with it. I captured you fair and square. You’re my property now.”

Oh, gods. Not only was he going to die, here was proof positive that he would be going to hell. The Death Angel sounded just like Hermione Granger at her bossiest. She would punch him in the face, drain all of the blood from his body, and take him straight down into the fiery pit. Alarmed by his own thoughts, Draco thrashed wildly, causing the pain in his neck to increase. 

The Angel leaned closer, until he could feel her breath on his face. It smelled not like rotten bones and moldy crypts, as he would have expected, but pleasantly of wine. And perhaps breath mints. 

“Lie still, Malfoy,” she growled. “I’ve got my wand aimed straight at your jugular. Don’t make me do something unpleasant. If you cooperate, I won’t even have to tie you up.”

Tie him up? If he was going to be dead, why would he need to be restrained?

“There’s something sharp stabbing into my back,” he complained piteously.

“I should think it’s a rock. There was a whole shower of them that got knocked loose when you tumbled down the hill,” the Angel told him, without sympathy. “But that is easily remedied. I want you to sit up. And then to stand, very slowly.”

Mind whirling, Draco obeyed. He thought briefly about yelling for help, or bolting. But what would be the point? Death would find you wherever you went, if your time was truly up. 

Instead, he rose carefully to his feet. And in the shafts of moonlight slanting down through the trees, got his first good look at the Angel of Death.

She was much shorter than he would have expected. One of her wings drooped oddly, like a sinking ship listing to starboard. She wore a short, poufy skirt of black net that was ripped in several places and sprinkled with dried leaves, and a pair of fishnet tights that had seen equally better days. Her tight bodice was low cut, pale green velvet that showed quite a bit of creamy skin… Draco was alarmed to feel a stir of interest between his legs.

What kind of person did that make him, if he could feel aroused by looking at the Angel of Death? Even if she did have pouty, crimson lips, nice cleavage, and torn fishnets.

 

“You’re rather odd looking for a Death Angel,” he told her, as dawning suspicion broke through the alcohol haze drifting around in his rock-battered brain. There’d been a costume party… faeries… and some kind of effing-silly game involving chasing and capturing…

“Death Angel?? What do you mean? Oh, god—is my costume _that_ bad?” There was genuine horror in her voice. “Damn Luna Lovegood! I told her I did not want to come to your party dressed this way. It’s ridiculous! I hate looking like a fool!” The Angel of Death, who Draco had realized was no angel at all, was suddenly babbling. “But the wine your mother serves is like nectar of the gods! And then she named _me_ as team captain for the Pixies and told me it was my job to capture _you,_ the Faerie Captain. I fell three times, chasing you through the forest… Death Angel? Oh, _gods!_ I’m so embarrassed…”

She suddenly looked down at her skirt, plucking at the scattering of dried leaves caught in its layers of net. Seeing his chance, Draco reached out and snatched the wand from her hand. In the blink of an eye, he had it positioned at exactly the spot where the bodice of her gown dipped lowest. He might be drunk, but he hadn’t been Slytherin seeker merely because he’d had a rich father.

Slowly, Hermione raised her head until her chin was in the air, her dark eyes glittering through the slits in her mask. “All very well and good, Malfoy,” she told him, “But in case you hadn’t noticed, you are bleeding quite profusely from that blow to the head you took while falling downhill.”

“Where?”

“Upper right side.”

Draco switched the wand to his left hand, gingerly touched his head and then glanced at his fingers. They came away clean. In that moment Hermione struck, catching him off guard and snatching her wand back. _“Prostratum!”_ she exclaimed, and Draco found himself once again lying on the ground.

“I said you were _my_ captive, Malfoy. That I’d got you fair and square.” Hands on her hips, Hermione stalked over and straddled him, one foot planted on either side of his prone body. “And I have no problem with resorting to Slytherin tactics to make it truly so.”

“Slytherin tactics? You outright lied,” Draco complained. But the truth was he didn’t much care; he was too distracted by the fact that Hermione Granger stood over him with her legs parted, enabling him to look straight up into the shadows beneath her short, poufy skirt. It was too dark for him to see anything, but Hermione didn’t seem to have noticed that her wand was dangerously near his left hand. Seconds later, it was once again in his fist.

_“Lumos! Effluvium!”_ Draco shouted. A gust of wind accompanied the sudden burst of light from the spell. Hermione’s skirt flew up, revealing that her fishnets were in fact thigh length. Above them she wore a tiny pair of pale green knickers covered with lacy black leaves and vines. Hermione shrieked and tugged at her skirt, her efforts ineffective against the steady breeze wafting up from her stolen wand.

Draco propped himself on one elbow, wand aimed firmly upward, enjoying the view. “When you dress for a woodland frolic, you certainly do it up all the way.” He grinned. “Thank you, Granger. For my own private version of a Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Malfoy, stop it! Stop it this instant!” Hermione stomped one foot. “Or I’ll…”

_“Prostratum.”_ Draco spoke, and suddenly Hermione was lying flat on the ground beside him. “Or you’ll what?” he murmured. “Please, finish your thought. I’d like to know what you had in mind.”

 

She turned her head and gazed at him intently, eyes beneath her mask like points of stars in the moonlight. “Or I’ll be forced to kiss you,” she whispered. “To get the upper hand again, of course.” 

“Of course.” Shifting his body so that he lay facing her, Draco slowly, carefully, peeled the mask from her face. “Do it, then,” he whispered back. “Kiss me, Hermione. It will not only give you the upper hand, but I guarantee that it will make me your willing captive for the rest of this night.”

Hermione stared at him for several seconds, her eyes dancing, a slow smile curving the corners of her mouth. Then she reached over and cupped her fingers around the back of Draco’s neck. “Now that sounds like my version of a Midsummer Night’s Dream,” she murmured as he lowered his face toward hers.

Her mouth beneath Draco’s was soft and willing. She tasted of cherries, cranberries and summer wine, her lips parting to allow his tongue inside, her breath a soft sigh as her tongue stroked his, their bodies melting into one another as easily as a whisper on the night air. 

[](http://s228.photobucket.com/user/carot24/media/Otter%20%20-%20Kiss%20Final.jpg.html)

*

Much, much later, as they walked through the woods toward the Manor, Hermione’s wand aimed firmly at Draco’s back, they encountered Luna Lovegood, hand in hand with a tall someone in a donkey’s head mask. 

“Hermione! I see you captured the Faerie Captain,” Luna greeted them.

“She did indeed.” Grinning, Draco nodded to the donkey-man. “And is that Neville? Did the two of you… er… find what you were looking for earlier?”

“Not exactly,” Luna replied. “But we had an interesting experience. We were following a small stream, searching for a mossy spot to lie down, you know— and we heard the oddest sounds. Cries and moans and soft, guttural mutterings. Draco, I think your woods could be haunted!”

“Hmm. Hermione and I might have heard those sounds ourselves, when she was… _capturing_ me.” Draco glanced at Hermione, the flash in his eyes matching the sparkle in hers. “You know, Luna—there’s a story that the Death Angel was once spotted near here,” he added.

“An old Malfoy Woods legend?”

“Actually, a rather new one.” Then, “Right now, Hermione has to turn me in and see who found the cache of faerie silver. But later she and I may come back and investigate the sounds you heard. I think a very, very thorough investigation is in order.”

“Be careful,” Neville warned from inside his mask. “Besides ghosts, Luna thought it might be chimera cats. Their cries are surprisingly human.”

“We do need to be cautious, Draco,” Hermione broke in. “You could get clawed.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Hermione jabbed him in the back with her wand. “March, prisoner,” she commanded. 

Followed by Luna and her donkey-headed lover, they proceeded toward the Manor.

FIN

Story title, line of lyrics, and party date all come from the medley ‘Yell Help, Wednesday Night, Ugly’ via Elton John’s _Rock of the Westies._


End file.
